Seven Days Till Freindship
by Dimitian
Summary: A short story about two characters in another story I am doing. I was looking for a way to incorporate their tale into the main story arc, but decided to make it a bit easier and go with this.
1. Day One

_ Stop looking at her lips. Stop looking at her lips. Stop looking at her kriffing lips, you invalid!_

Seraiah yelled at the top of his mental voice, but his obstinate body refused to obey. He was standing at the other end of the mat from Hanna Ding, an arkanian girl—a pretty arkanian girl— who looked rather bemused by his inability to focus. She had no idea what his problem was, thank the stars. She just knew the same thing that Seraiah new; they had an audience, they had visitors in the audience, and the audience was here to observe the tryouts. He _should_ be focused.

The tryouts were for the remaining positions in the tournament led by Master Xan. 'Ironhand', they called her. The purpose of the tournament was to further the progress of the lightsaber studies, made necessary by the war. This had been the case for the better part of a year, increased emphasis on combat, tactics, strategy, you name it. If it could be applied in war or a skirmish, it was on the list of things to learn. All the younglings knew that this was not right; the masters stressed time and again that a Jedi is _not_ a soldier, nor a commander of armies, nor any sort of component in war. The Jedi served the greater good, the 'will of the Force'. They were supposed to be guardians of justice, keepers of the peace. Seraiah's generation was one prepared to face conflict, instead of prevent it. It was not right, and the masters knew this, as well as the younglings. But it was necessary. War forced such things on the governments that waged it. And the Jedi protected the Republic. Thus, they protected it in war as well as peace.

_Spast,_ Seraiah shifted his feet. _Now I'm depressed _and_ distracted._

Master Xan inhaled to give the command to begin, and Seraiah made a last ditch effort to focus. He stared into the silver light of his blade, remembering the Room of a Thousand Fountains that it was built in reverence of, the place he first learned to calm himself. He centred himself in the Force as best a youngling could be expected, though he felt Hanna was even more so. Master Xan gave the word, and Seraiah side stepped an acrobatic flash of green from overhead. He turned to face Hanna, who landed on the other side of him. He bent his knees and coiled his muscles in preparation for a back-handspring, the counter for the coming high or low slash that Hanna would perform. Hanna came through with the former, and Seraiah launched himself back. His muscles did their job, executing the flip efficiently, ending with a tidy landing back into the Ataru ready stance. He sidestepped another slash, and then a lunge, Hanna leaving no time for him to make a counterattack. She made another lunge, this time making a mistake, leaning to far forward. She passed directly in front of him, leaving the back of her neck open. Seraiah drew a breath for the strike—

He caught a whiff of her hair.

He numbly saw Hanna somersault away to regain her footing, while he stood dazed with a heat in his cheeks. Hanna charged again, using an elegant flourish to drive Seraiah's blade out of centre. It worked. Seraiah tried to block every swipe and weave of the green web woven before him, exposing his arm to a quick downward slash from his opponent. The sharp heat made him wince, and Hanna delivered two more strikes. She had won. Seraiah had lost.

Master Xan politely congratulated her victory, before cautioning her on her that miss-performed lunge. Master Xan then sent her to the sides, where more congratulations were waiting for her from her peers, before standing over Seraiah. Seraiah tried to look her in the eye, but couldn't lift his eyes off the ground. He could feel the purple in his blue cheeks.

"Valchio." She said, adopting a quieter voice so only he could hear. "Youngling." She said a little more sternly when he still did not look at her. Seraiah brought his face up, but still struggled to make eye contact. He could see some of the other younglings looking at them, whispering amongst themselves as to what Master Xan may be talking to him about.

"Seraiah, you are young, as you have been told many times, but this is not an excuse." Seraiah knew what she was talking about; his infatuation with Hanna was not news to the elder Jedi in front of him. In fact, things like this were never of very much relevance. Divorcing emotion and attachment was required to become a Jedi, but not for learning to be one. Learning to be a Jedi was where you finished distancing yourself from connection. But like she had just said...

"You have been given all the advice and direction that you require. Overcoming this is dependent on you exercising self control. Do or do not."

"...There is no try." Seraiah finished. Yoda had said it on occasion enough for it to be known around the Temple. Master Xan was right though; Seraiah had to take charge of this. He had to detach himself from this childhood passion. If he couldn't master the impulses of a boy, then how would he restrain the wants of a man?

His plight seemed dire to only him, though, his plight being he did not want to rid himself of this. The smell of her hair, the soft look of her lips...it was all so good. And no matter how sad knowing he could never have her reciprocate this, he could not bring himself to deaden himself to it.

He shuffled through the halls of the Temple with tears dripping from his downturned face. He turned his head to the side whenever someone passed, but he doubted he was fooling anyone, the Jedi being able to sense emotion and thought through the Force. He turned the corner to the males dormitories and stopped. It was large enough to house a platoon of men and boys, but most of it was eerily vacant. Another visible scar of the war, Seraiah's instructors had said. He remembered how, years ago, this place was abuzz with Jedi of all ages, all species, all backgrounds. He remembered the Jedi who had given him the silver crystal for his lightsaber. She was an arkanian, like Hanna. She had always been very understanding of Seraiah, and had chosen him as her apprentice when she had given him the silver focusing crystal six years ago, and had taught him to build it herself. She had died the very next year protecting another two Jedi from a mob of Iridonians incited by some people called 'Nightsisters'. The similarities between her lightsaber and his were the only part he had left of her, her lightsaber being pu away somewhere out of reverence. He was an orphan. An orphan in need of a parent. He was alone. So very alone. And the one person he was drawn to, he could not have.

Tears rained from eyes that were closed tight with pain. His body trembled.

It wasn't fair.

He felt a hard impact against the top of his head, knocking him back to almost fall on the floor. He righted himself to look up at what had knocked him down. He looked up at the fuming face of a human, a few years older than him at the most.

"What?" He demanded. His accent was odd; it was like coruscanti, but very off somewhere. Seraiah stood, wiping his face with the sleeve of his tunic, before looking at him again.

"What?" The human demanded again. Seraiah felt anger at being spoken down to like this.

"Watch where you're going!"

"Me?" The human retorted. "You're the one staring at the ground, boy. Or maybe you were watering it, eh?" He gestured to the patch of floor that Seraiah had been crying over.

"Kriff you!" Seraiah shouted. The humans eyes went wide with indignation.

"What?" He said again, in disbelief this time.

"You heard me!"

"Who the hell—?" The human seemed lost for words for a moment. "What is your problem?"

"What do you care?" Seraiah spat. "You wouldn't understand."

The human scoffed. "Yeah? You're a foulmouthed little brat who was bucketing his eyes out onto the carpet because he lost to a girl. What's to understand?"

"Kriff you!" Seraiah shouted again. "You don't know anything!"

The human narrowed his eyes. "Not yet..." He said, and Seraiah could feel him reach out with the Force. His eyes went wide as he felt the human's mind brush his own. He shook his head, fighting against the invasion of privacy, before lunging forward to shove the offender back.

_"Get out!"_ He screamed. The human shifted his weight to one side, turned, and let Seraiah stumble past. Seraiah turned around and took a swipe at the other boy, only scoring a glancing hit.

"Knock it off, you little twit." The danger in the humans tone went unnoticed to Seraiah.

_"You schutta!"_ Seraiah's eyes were watering up again, out of rage this time. He swung again and missed. "Hold still!"

"Or what? You'll cry me to death?"

"That doesn't even make sense, you murglak!"

"Oh, really? Makes more sense than cussing in the Jedi Temple! I've a right mind to shove a bar of salt-wash down your throat!"

"Try it." Seraiah grabbed his lightsaber, igniting it in front of him. The human just scoffed again.

"Nice nightlight. You use that to chase away the sith-spooks?"

Seraiah swung wildly at him, but the human seemed to disappear from in front of him. But really, he was just ducking and rolling to the side faster than Seraiah had seen from another youngling. Seraiah turned to swing again, but the human had hopped out of range of his blade.

"Losing my patience, lil' mate." The human warned. Seraiah lunged forward, aiming for his face. The human ducked out of the way again.

"Stop that!" Seraiah tried again to land a hit. This time the human stood his ground. Seraiah's brought his blade down from the side, going for the space between the human's head and shoulder. The human stepped forward. Seraiah's eyes went wide as the human grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward, before grabbing Seraiah's belt with his other hand and lifting Seraiah off the ground. Seraiah felt a shout in the Force as he was thrown across the hall. He landed hard on the carpeted duracrete, his instinctive Force barrier protecting him from the worst of the impact.

"You...filthy..." Seraiah climbed to his feet, tears falling from his eyes again.

"What is going on here?"

Seraiah looked through his tear blurred vision at a sleepy eyed Sulustan Jedi, one of the nightwatchman for the dormitories, and a Zabrak day-monitor looking down at him. The Zabrak held out his hand.

"Lightsaber."

Seraiah stood and handed his now deactivated tool over to the older Jedi.

"This little punk took a swing at me!" The human accused

The Nightwatchman turned to the human. "Don't think I missed that throw, youngling." He said flatly. "Or that I didn't sense you invade his mind. Both of you stand over here," He gestured to the large door at the entrance to the males dormitories. "And do not move."

The Nightwatchman moved to the other side of the hallway, turning to watch them as the Day-monitor pulled out his communicator. Seraiah stood in embarrassed dread as the Day-monitor called for the Head of Correction to send someone to collect both Seraiah and the youngling he had been fighting with, while some of the other younglings arrived back to their shared rooms, staring and whispering at the sight of them.

_Sithspit...Sithspit, this is bad..._

A group of Jedi, younglings, adolescents, and adults, walked through the doors, followed by two elder Jedi, who Seraiah knew could only be the Jedi sent to collect them.

Seraiah shifted his feet and looked at the floor as one youngling from the mixed-age group approached, another human. He saw the feet of the youngling move over to the youngling Seraiah had been fighting.

He heard him say something along the lines of 'what happened?', but couldn't make out the exact words over the din of the returning Jedi. The two Jedi sent for them ushered the other human on, before motioning for Seraiah and the human to follow them.

"This way."

As he fell in behind them, Seraiah noticed something off about the mixed-age group. They seemed unfamiliar with the dormitories, and, now that he was looking somewhere other than the floor, their robes were slightly different from the 'Temple norm', whatever that was anymore. He turned back to the Jedi leading him to the Head of Correction, and then it hit him; they weren't from the Temple. They were from the academy on Almas, visiting the Temple for a study of the deeper traditions of the Jedi. 'Honoured visitors' they were called. There was a rumour that one of them was here to face the Jedi trials, taking the same trials that Master Yoda himself took—

_Wait..._

Seraiah looked over to his left, at the human. He wore the same robes as the visitors from Almas. He had just rough-housed with an honoured visitor.

_Sithspit, sithspit, sithspit, sithspit, sithspit, sithspit..._

* * *

><p>There you go. Here's hoping you like it.<p>

Notes:

Salt-wash=bar of soap

Schutta=bitch

Murglack=bitch/bastard

Stpast/sithspit=shit

Kriff=f***


	2. Day Two

Seraiah sat with arms crossed, breath deep and slow, slumped against the head of his cot. He had been restricted from all practical classes, and had been given extra study material on self control and mental discipline. 'grounded', the other youngling had remarked. Said youngling got the same punishement, Mephibosheth being his name. Seraiah had almost started another fight upon hearing it. Regardless of how touchy anyone was about their name, the Master of Correction sent them both straight back to the dormitories with their punishments in immediate effect.

And so here Seraiah sat, his work done in the last nine hours, fuming over the confrontation with Mephibosheth. Wouldn't he be so smug about it all, having handed Seraiah's arse to him the day before? He could just hear him bragging to his friends about how he danced around the 'milk-skin', how the younglings must be pathetic if that fight was any indication. And then there were the other Temple younglings, gadding and gossiping about the fight. 'Should have known better', 'not the Jedi way', it was endless from some of them. Fortunately, Hanna paid no heed to any of it.

Seraiah stood up, reaching under his pillow for his training saber (well, not 'his', really. It was another gift from his master before she passed). He stood in the middle of the room, and began to practice. He may be out of the tournament, but Hanna was impressed very much by martial skill. He began with meditating, stilling his mind, opening himself to the Force. He began the first slow movements, not actual attacks or strikes, but fluid movements that stretched muscles and tendons. He inhaled and sighed with each stretch, enjoying the release of endorphins and adrenaline. Gradually gaining speed, he flicked on the training saber, casting blue light throughout the room. He began the first practical strikes, halting his blade centimetres from the furniture. He accelerated his movements faster, settling into a fast rhythm to push his cardiovascular limits. Seconds and minutes blurred together, his breathing accelerated and his brow and limbs began to ooze saltwater.

The practice tool in his hands became an extension of his arms, the Force an extension of his existence. He paled in comparison to the clarity the masters could achieve, but this did not lessen the bliss of it, the feeling of being part of something, being not yourself, but something greater, something unifying.

And then it began to end, muscles and tendons tiring despite a greater power backing them. Seraiah brought his resolve to action, pushing his mind to draw upon the force and his muscles to keep going despite fatigue. He felt the sweat run down his face, his neck. He became hyperaware of his body, the protestations of muscle and tendon, but he kept going. The air coming through his throat and nostrils felt like ice.

He felt a twinge in the Force; someone was coming. He slowed his movements, not stopping suddenly, but easing his heart and lungs into regular activity. He shut off the training saber and replaced it under his pillow. He stood around the room, his body still processing the adrenaline in its veins.

The door opened to the other boys he shared the room with.

"Hi, Seraiah!" Behren, a twi'lek, greeted. "The last entries are in! You'll never believe it!"

"Try me." He shrugged.

"Lena Missa and Scout!"

_Scout?_ He thought. _Scout?_

Tallisibeth Edwandung-Esterhazy—Scout, for short—had gotten into the tournament a few times over the years, but over that time, especially last year, she had become progressively out of place in the Temple. She was by far the weakest Jedi of their age. She lacked all the grace, finesse, and presence in the Force that all Jedi were chosen to be Jedi for. And Behren was telling him _she_ had gotten in? He had lost fair and square, sure, and to no one else's fault but his, but this was like fate was rubbing it in.

"Edwandung-Esterhazy got into the tournament?"

"Yeah, she did." Gananata, an ithorian, said flatly. "Over you, me, and everyone in this room." The dual mouthed cynic made a lazy Force assisted leap into his cot above Seraiah's. "And yet, you're the only one upset about it. Or maybe you're just upset by something else?"

Where other ithorians were kind and passive to a fault, Gananata was a schutta amongst gizkas.

"Shut up, hammerhead."

"Someone's in a foul mood." The last boy to enter the room, a nautolan named Unalek, dumped his lightsaber on his bed and leant against the wall. "Still brewing that fight in your head?"

"Tell us about it! What was the guy like?" Behren had made the visitors form Almas his obsession of the week. So when he heard of Seraiahs fight with Mephibosheth, he started asking for every detail, despite the Jedi Masters telling all who brought it up not to talk about it.

"We're not supposed to talk about it." Seraiah told him.

"Oh, c'mon! Everyone else is anyway."

"Leave me alone." Seraiah lay on his own bed.

"Please?"

Seraiah turned toward the wall.

"Please, please, please?"

"Knock it off." Gananata warned before Seraiah could.

"No, no, tell us." Unalek said in a mocking tone. "I'd love to hear the fight from the losing side. "Leave." Seraiah began, his voice as low and menacing as his young vocal cords could manage. "Me. Alone."

"Or what, _lover boy_?"

"That's enough." Said Gananata.

Seraiah turned back to the middle of the room.

"If ding can beat you, I can."

Seraiah stood up.

"And I could probably beat that Mephiposhek as well."

"Shut up." Seraiah said impassively.

"Make me, twerp." Unalek gave him a shove. A second later, Unalek was picking himself up off the floor.

"You little..." Unalek snarled.

There was a knock on the door.

"What's going on in there?"

The voice of the day-monitor stopped the fight.

"Nothing." Called Gananata. Regarding Seraiah and Unalek in turn, he added, "Right?"

"Right." They said in unison, going back to their sides of the room. Behren took the hint and went to the desk at the back wall for some studying before bed. Gananata just stayed were he was, lazing on his bed.

When they all decided to call it a night, Seraiah lay awake in the dark, thinking of that moment a few hours ago when he had struck his roommate. He felt out of control. First Hanna, then his fight with Mephibosheth, now his roommates were fighting with him. This wasn't the first time his roommates had teased him, Unalek and Gananata taking turns because they hated the other's jokes, but this time Seraiah had just gone off. He felt like everything was going wrong, spiralling into the dark like the Force itself.

He sighed sadly and tried again for sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, that took a bit (writer's block).<strong>

**Hope I kept the characters believable, but please tell me if I didn't.**

**Just so everyone knows, nautolan is Kit Fisto's species, ithorians and twi'leks are pretty iconic for star wars, and, no, I'm not going to keep chucking more and more aliens into the story.**


	3. Day Three

The Younglings, Padawans, Knights, and Masters all dug in to their breakfast. Today was the last day before the Tournament. The contestants were surrounded by friends and admirers offering wishes for luck and tips on the competition.

Seraiah walked into the rectory along with Unalek. They had apologised to eachother, agreeing no hard feelings, but Seraiah was still harbouring another grudge. At any rate, Seraiah grabbed some breakfast and found a seat. He watched from afar as Hanna sat at her morning meal of sullustan pine oats with some blue milk and wookiee-cookies. She even finished her meals with a sort of grace, like she were performing a ritual rather than eating.

_Elegant..._

Seraiah shook the thought from his head, looking down and scooping a spoonful of his naboo chak root soup up to his mouth. He looked up from the bowl to see the Almas visitors being shown into the room, grabbing everyone's attention. He spotted one visitor in particular.

"Younglings and Padawans, your attention please." Master Cin Drallig announced. "Masters also. Our honoured guests have agreed to join us for our breakfast meal."

As Master Drallig continued, Seraiah caught Mephibosheth's eye, who then turned his head away with a scowl. Seraiah glared in response to the dismissive behaviour. By the time Master Drallig finished, saying that the Almas visitors were willing to answer any questions that the Younglings and Padawans might have, he had gone back to staring into his soup.

As he slurped spoonful after spoonful, he looked over across the room. The Almas visitors were the centre of attention now, with many of the contestants asking if any of the Padawans had any tips that would be useful. Seraiah caught Mephibosheth's eye again, and again he looked away. Taking another slurp, he looked up again in Mephibosheth's direction.

There was another boy talking to him, a bleach-blonde haired human. He couldn't read what they were saying, lip reading being a skill he had never taken up, but he could tell the other boy was talking about him. Resorting to interpreting their faces and gestures, he gathered the conversation was going along the lines of;

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'What is it?'

'Nothing.'

The other boy looked over to where Mephibosheth had been looking, bringing his eyes to Seraiah. Seraiah ducked back to his soup. He stayed there for a few slurps before looking up again, and when he did, he saw the two boys had disappeared. He looked around the room from his seated position, but couldn't find them. He sat still for a moment, wondering where they might have gone. Deciding he didn't care, he gave a mental shrug and went back to his soup.

He had just brought the spoon back up from the liquid when there was a '_thud_' next to him.

"Hey!" The blonde human was staring into Seraiah's startled face with wide eyed optimism. "I couldn't help but notice that you and Meph fought the other day."

"Who?" He had no idea who the human was talk—oh, right; _Meph_pibosheth. "Right. Him." He went back to his soup as the human continued.

"I'm Thrace. I was wondering if you'd accept an offer to join me for a few rounds of sparring."

Seraiah looked at the human. Why would he want to spar with him? Was this a lead up to a prank of some sort, or a round of jeering from 'Meph' and the human in front of him.

"Is this a joke?"

"No." Thrace said, not moving his gaze from him.

"Was this your friend's idea?" Seraiah asked in an accusing tone.

"It was mine." Said Thrace. "Look, it's a friendly offer. Just a few sparing lessons to give you some help in next year's tournament."

Seraiah got to his feet and looked down at Thrace.

"I don't—!" _Want your help!_ Was what he was going to say before he realised Hanna was watching them, halting his outburst into an awkward silence.

"Well?" Thrace asked.

Seraiah looked at where Meph had been sitting for a minute. Seraiah didn't want anything to do with the human, or his freinds. He had caused him enough trouble already and, frankly, he really didn't like him. But if he turned down Thrace's offer, what would everyone else say when they heard about it. Master Xan would be disappointed, Hanna would think him an immature brat when she heard it, and the matter would be bait for Gananata and Unalek.

"Fine." He said finally. "I'm in."

"Okay!" Thrace said cheerfully, despite the moody response. "Ten minutes after breakfast, at the Room of a Thousand Fountains."

* * *

><p>Seraiah had been waiting for a few minutes by the time he sensed Thrace had decided to show up. He had passed the time with some warm ups like the night before, so his frustration hadn't had a chance to build up.<p>

"Did I keep you waiting long?" He asked with a 'negotiator Kenobi' voice meant to mock the late arrival, not turning to him.

"Rude as ever, hm?"

Seraiah spun around. Thrace was standing at the entrance to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, with Mephibosheth a few feet behind him. He mentally kicked himself for not asking whether or not he would bring him along.

"Meph, knock it off." Thrace whispered over his shoulder as he approached Seraiah alone. "Meph and I usually spar together, so we could give you tips on how to beat each other. Do you mind if he fights as well?"

"Yes!" Seraiah suddenly looked at Meph, who had voiced the same objection in unison.

"Yes I mind! You didn't say he was going to be here." Meph stormed over to Thrace, pointing a finger at Seraiah. "Are you two trying to set me up for something?" He looked at Seraiah. "Were you in on this?"

"Were you?" He snapped back. He looked at Thrace, who was standing between and to the side of them. "You know what? Go to hell."

He grabbed his robe off a tree branch he had hung it on and walked to the exit.

"Wait, wait. Just hear me out. Please?"

Seraiah slowed a little at Thrace's pleading. He turned slowly to look at him. There was a moment of silence as the three of them stood still, frozen by mistrust and resentment.

"Just give us a chance. That fight between you two is over; the masters dealt with the matter, and now you two have a chance to patch things up."

"A 'chance' that you set up." Meph scoffed.

"Meph, come on. Tell me Master For'Deschel wouldn't encourage you to try."

Meph looked away. Seraiah wanted to ask who 'Master For'Deschel' was, but decided it didn't matter. Besides, Thrace had a good point. Any of the Jedi Masters throughout the galaxy would encourage him to go along with this. Jedi do not hold on to anything, not to any form of attachment. A grudge was an attachment to anger.

"You're right." Seraiah looked to Meph as they answerd in unison again. The awkwardness passed quickly, Seraiah continuing.

"I'll stay." He bowed to Thrace. "I'm sorry." He stood up and looked at Meph. He should apologise to him as well, but he couldn't stomach the words. Maybe later, then. He looked at Thrace again.

"No hard feelings?" He asked, the words sounding a little forced.

"Not at all." Thrace replied. "Now, the sparring. Is your lightsaber's power level down?"

Seraiah double checked before nodding.

"What form are you instructed in?"

"Ataru." Seraiah replied.

"Huh." Thrace looked to the side. "I was hoping for something different..."

"Excuse me?"

"I meant, form four is the second most common behind form three," Thrace explained, Mephibosheth shaking his head with a weary smile. "So I was just thinking that it would be nice to come across one of the other forms for once."

"...Right."

"Anyway, Meph is form four as well, and he's one of the better duellists in our age group."

Mephibosheth shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with Seraiah.

"But, I'll spar with you first," Glancing over his shoulder at his friend, Thrace added, "Since Meph isn't the type to play nice." To which Mephibosheth responded, "That again...?"

Thrace walked to the middle of the open are that Seraiah had been warming up in. Taking a ready stance, he waited for Seraiah to do the same.

"Okay, you practice form four, which is pretty acrobatic and overwhelming to your opponent. Your strategy is to get in and overload the other guys defence until he makes a mistake, right?"

Seraiah nodded. "In lightsaber duels, yeah. Some of the librarians say it was developed as a counter form to Soresu."

"Which it was." Mephibosheth said from the side.

Seraiah shot a look at the unwanted input as Thrace continued.

"My form, meanwhile, when it comes to lightsaber on lightsaber combat, was developed partly to counter form four. It uses turning your opponent's strikes into chances for a counter."

"Which variant?" Seraiah had figured from Thrace's description that it was the fifth form he was speaking of, but that had two options of style; Shien, which was quick and rapid, and Djem So, which was steady and powerful.

"Djem So. I started with Shien, of course, but since I started growing more, my instructors suggested Djem So." Thrace paused to let Seraiah say something.

Seraiah took a moment to look his opponent up and down. He wasn't big for his age, in fact being only a little taller than Meph, as he called his friend, but he had a broad build to his upper torso and muscles to fill it. That was probably where he brought the power required for Djem So from. He hated to ask, but he would do well to ask for a tip or two.

He looked over to Mephibosheth, who had taken to staring into the flora and fauna. "Any suggestions?" He asked him.

Mephibosheth didn't look at him. "Don't stay still."

Seraiah took the short answer to heart. He didn't care for his opinion or advice, but in the interests of not looking like an idiot in front of the jerk...

"Shall we?" Thrace asked, thumbing his blue blade to life.

Seraiah responded by assuming his ready stance and bracing his legs, silver blade in front and to the side. Thrace took the initiative and stepped forward with a rising slash before coming back down like a hammer. Seraiah parried the first strike, stepped back out of range of the second, and leapt high over Thrace's head to stab down.

Seraiah had reached the zenith of his leap when the Force whispered a warning. He flicked his blade behind his shoulder in time to block a whip crack from Thrace's weapon, a Shien move.

"He knows Djem So _and_ Shien." Meph sounded as if someone had just asked him a stupid question. Seraiah blocked out the comment and took the offensive, trying to dance around his opponent so as to flank him. Thrace responded in kind, and they skipped round and round each other.

"Mind your surroundings." Meph called from his stoic position at the gardens edge.

_I know what to do!_ Seraiah held back from shouting at him, instead focusing on finding a gap in Thrace's defence. He saw one and lunged, but Thrace turned to let him pass, chopping down as he went by. Seraiah pitched forward into a roll, avoiding the blade and coming to his feet to meet a new offensive.

"Keep out of reach."

"_Shut up._" Seraiah growled behind his teeth, putting more power into his strikes in frustration. He leapt around, trying again to move around to his opponent's side. Thrace responded like before, this time putting some tactics into his movements around Seraiah. Seraiah tried some high leaps and cartwheels to prevent himself from being backed into a corner.

"Keep it quick and simple." Meph called with a weary voice.

Seraiah snapped, chopping at Thrace as fast and hard as he could. Thrace slid the strike off his block, carrying Seraiah's blade up and over to the other side of him before coming back to put his blade before Seraiah's face.

"Meph's a gundark sometimes, I know." He sounded as if Seraiah had just made a common mistake instead of lose control. "But you have to let the frustration go. Battle fields are death traps for grudges."

Seraiah breathed in. Thrace's words made sense, and didn't carry the 'Jedi way' monologue he was so sick of hearing. He let go of the frustration within himself.

"Me and Meph will fight next." Thrace motioned for Mephibosheth to come over. "You stand over there and take notes. You're fighting him next."

"A gundark, eh?" Meph stretched his arms, eager to duel.

Seraiah stood to the side as instructed, taking up Mephibosheth's position at the edge of the gareden. He watched as the two friends stood apart from each other, whispered something amongst themselves, and then activated their lightsabers. Seraiah raised his eyebrows as he saw Mephibosheth's weapon; a double-bladed lightsaber, a type of lightsaber that had become very uncommon in the thousand odd years since the last war against other Forceful beings.

As Meph twirled the green blades, Thrace readied himself like Seraiah had, allowing Meph to make the first move. He did, throwing a feint at Thrace's head with one blade before spinning low with the other, forcing Thrace to jump back, giving ground. Meph was relentless, coming in with high and low strikes in random sequence, keeping Thrace on the defensive. Then the match turned, Thrace finding an opening to counter and put Meph on the defence. Meph was following the advice he had been giving to Seraiah; keeping out of reach, keeping any counters or attacks short and to the point, not spinning, not flipping, and keeping an eye on where he was in the open area.

Seraiah refocused from watching to analysing. He had some basic knowledge of defending against the dual-blades, but, like everyone else at the temple, he didn't focus on countering it. Luckily, all lightsaber forms were rigid and uniformed to each other, so his blocks should only need to be a little faster to counter the unfamiliar weapon. He watched Meph go into a leap over Thrace's head, using both blades in a defensive flurry. He landed with a low ankle sweep, his weapon held over his head ready to parry. Thrace jumped back from the sweep and readied himself again. Seraiah made a mental note that, if he could move fast enough, he could turn that against Meph by going for the hilt of his weapon.

Suddenly, Meph deactivated one of his blades. Thrace seemed worried by this, oddly enough, like facing one blade was worse than two. Meph threw two Makashi feints, before using the Force to shield his hand as he _grabbed hold of the blade_.

"What the—?"

Seraiah watched in dumfounded shock as Meph put his blade to his left, off hand level with his shoulder holding the blade and sword hand on the hilt down at his hip, as Thrace attempted to counter the second feint by swinging at Meph's side. Meph's position blocked the strike, and then brought his hilt up behind Thrace's forearm. Pushing Thrace's arms out of the way, he stepped forward, bringing the active bar of green around to Thrace's neck with his off hand.

"Whoa..."

Thrace and Meph stepped away from one another, Thrace looking a little annoyed, but smiling nonetheless. Deactivating their lightsabers, they walked over to Seraiah, the match having taken them a few metres away from where they started. Meph's face was beaming from the adrenaline and action, but turned neutral when they approached Seraiah.

"So, you get all that?" Asked Thrace. Seraiah gave a dry chuckle and looked at Mephibosheth's weapon.

"Well, that last bit..." He said nervously.

Thrace laughed openly at this, while Meph gave a huff.

"Well, you're up." Thrace turned to Meph and whispered, "Go easy on him. I don't want him snapping and needing me to separate the two of you."

"Whatever." Meph muttered under his breath. Seraiah muttered the same, but the other two boys weren't in range to hear it, Thrace going to the garden edge and Meph going back to the open area. Seraiah walked over to the open area as well, taking a position opposite Meph. They switched on their sabers and readied themselves.

Seraiah quickly took note of Meph's stance; legs even, torso turned to one side with his weapon just below his ribs. He could easily spring up over his head or step in for a lunge. Seraiah made a mental note to stay on the defensive for the most part, so he could get a feel for Mephibosheth's style.

He suddenly realised they had been standing there for several seconds, neither of them making the first move.

"Well?" Seraiah was unable to keep his eyes from shifting to Thrace.

"What?" Meph sounded like a defensive toddler.

"You going to do something?"

"You first."

"For the sake of the Force..." Thrace interrupted. "How old are you two?"

"He won't do anything!" Meph protested. Thrace shrugged.

"So _you_ do something."

Meph turned back to Seraiah. Seraiah felt a smile tug at his mouth as Meph bit his lip in frustration and Thrace muttered something unintelligible.

Meph sprang forward with a series of slashes. Seraiah hopped and back peddled frantically, Meph coming in faster than he had anticipated. As he had had thought, his form defended against the dual-blades quite well, as did the dual-blades defend against the single. Lightsaber combat was inflexible like that.

Meph leapt up and over, like he did with Thrace, only the twirl of his weapon brought the blades down in an offensive. Seraiah yelped as the last slash came close to his brow, leaving his forehead stinging. It didn't connect, but it came close enough to leave a blister.

He leapt back to steal a moment, focusing his mind beyond the pain. Meph had crouched low as before, and leapt up again. Seraiah rolled out of the way this time, avoiding the attack entirely. He rose to his feet and readied for another assault. Meph obliged, attacking with some flips and spins, drawing Seraiah's blade out of centre.

Seraiah grunted aggressively. He had fallen for this once this week, there will not be a second.

He brought his elbows closer to his body, bringing wrist work to the fore of his defence. Meph upped the ante, trying some more elaborate sequences. Seraiah worked his muscles and tendon as hard as he could to keep up. It seemed for a moment like Meph's flurries were going to penetrate his defence.

_There!_

Meph made a mistake! He had turned too far, leaving his left leg exposed at the back of the knee. It was a window two dozen milliseconds long, but enough. Seraiah's body moved on instinct with his minds discovery. He threw himself forward into a cartwheel, flicking his blade out at the exposed limb. Meph realised his mistake, but too late. Seraiah's blade made contact, leaving a discoloured mark on the back of Meph's trousers and stumbling him forward to his knees.

_That'll teach you, you nerf herder._

"Woah." Thrace was holding back a laugh. "Meph, I think you're getting slow in your old age."

"You're a year older than me, you twit." Meph stood back up and readied himself. Seraiah had gotten the first hit, but Meph had won his duel with Thrace by getting a killing stroke; he needed two more to win.

"Two more and he wins." Thrace said stating the obvious.

"Kriffing..." Meph slowly said as he regarded his freind. "...duh." He looked back to Seraiah. "Bring it."

Taking the offensive was a mistake, but Seraiah didn't have a choice this time; Meph was going to go on the defence whether or not Seraiah attacked first. Might as well get it over with.

He advanced, relying on stabs and thrusts for attack. Meph's responded as Seraiah feared he would, with some swipes and thrashes at his feet meant to get him leaping around. He had to stall for time until he could draw Meph's defences away from overhead. He tried a gambit, using some attacks and sequences that would draw Meph's blade away from his feet, but would leave himself open to a stab. Meph fell for it, bringing his blade further up to defend against Seraiah's blade.

Meph suddenly deactivated one of his blades and rolled to the side. Bewildered, Seraiah stepped back and held his blade at guard, too late realising what was going on; Meph sprang up and thrust forward, drawing Seraiah's blade up over their heads, or Seraiah's at least, Meph being a foot taller than him. Their blades locked, Meph bore his weight down on Seraiah, overpowering him with alarming speed.

_Get off me you son of a schutta._

Seraiah felt his frustration grow, and he diverted some of his concentration to restrain it. This gave Meph the moment he needed. He reignited his other blade swung it upward, catching Seraiah across his side. This strike, coupled with a push from the Force, lifted Seraiah off his feet and sent him spinning clumsily through the air to land and roll limply.

"Meph!" Thrace shouted in outrage, which Seraiah would have done also, were he not so dazed after being winded.

"What? I saw an opening and took it." Meph defended poorly.

Seraiah got back to his feet, gasping profanity as he tried to get back his balance.

"That was uncalled for, and you know it!"

"It's not my fault if he's a wimp."

"That's probably broken a rib, dammit."

Seraiah stood up, saltwater filling his eyes. "You...kriffing..." He was on the verge of either collapsing in a bawling heap or lunging at Meph in a bloody minded rage.

"See, here he goes again. Just like the day before yesterday. You say two words to—."

Seraiah went with the former option. He burst forth with Force powered speed and slammed into Meph, winding him. He wasted no time in his fury, scrambling atop Meph and beating down with his fists. Meph responded by grabbing at his face, attempting to claw his thumbs into Seraiah's eyes.

Before the fight went further, they were pulled apart by a pair of other worldly hands.

"_Thats enough!_" Thrace lifted them both of the floor and dumped them in the nearby body of water.

Seraiah stood up and out of it quickly, the adrenaline still rich in his veins. He didn't attack again, instead standing in the moment of just having been dunked in a few inches deep water. He looked at Thrace for a while, who was looking at him in glances between his glares at Meph, before looking to Meph as well. He stood much like himself, fists still clenched, chest heaving and puffed out, face red from anger. Seraiah quickly decided he didn't want to see that face anymore. He stomped out of the pool and walked over to his lightsaber.

"Good riddance." Meph muttered.

Seraiah sensed a movement in the force before hearing a splash. He turned to look out of instinctive curiosity of the out of place sound, and saw Thrace had just splashed Meph, Meph himself now staring at his friend with a look of betrayal.

"Shut up." Thrace turned to Seraiah. "And you stay put."

"I don't want to hear it." Seraiah turned to leave. Thrace leapt in front of him.

"Well you're going to, and so is he! Look, I heard all about the fight. Meph did something wrong and frankly so did you." Thrace was looking back and forth between Seraiah and Meph as he spoke. "But that matter has been _dealt with_. The masters slapped you both on the wrists when they could have done a lot more. You should have learned from this and moved on, like _Jedi_! But have you?"

Seraiah found himself looking at the floor, suddenly embarrassed under the lecture. He fought it, not willing to feel bad for what he had just done.

"Meph, you're too old for this sort of bickering. I'm embarrassed to have _seen_ this from you. And _you_," Thrace emphasised, getting Seraiah to look up for a moment. "You're more emotional than a youngling half your age! What the hell?"

Seraiah went back to looking at the ground, feeling all his resent toward Meph turn to shame. Thrace wasn't making any actual point, he was just ranting about how stupid this was, but he was getting a point across anyway; this was immature and idiotic.

"Actually, forget it. Sort this out yourselves, I'm done." Thrace turned and walked out.

"Never mind that sorting it out ourselves is what we would be doing if you hadn't stuck your nose in it..." Meph muttered bitterly.

"Whatever Meph." Thrace called out as he turned the corner, leaving Meph and Seraiah alone in the room.

Yeah.

Alone.

Awkward...

Seraiah hoped that Meph wasn't looking at him, because he couldn't lift his eyes off the floor. Seraiah felt an ache in his side, where Meph had struck. He moved his arm to cradle it. Nothing was broken, but there was quite a bit of sore spread around the contact area.

Meph shifted his feet, which Seraiah saw out of the corner of his eye.

"Anything broken?"

Seraiah paused as he considered how to reply. "No."

"Okay."

"Still hurt."

"Yeah, well...I hoped as much...when I did it..."

"Hm." Seraiah paused suddenly as he recalled what Meph had said earlier. "You think we would've sorted this out ourselves?"

"I dunno..." Meph said with a shrug. "Never know now."

They were both silent again for a moment. "Did you tell Thrace everything about our last fight?"

"Including the mind reading bit?" Meph smiled a little. "Someone else told him that. It's actually a rumour now, whether I did or not."

Seraiah smiled as well, looking up off the floor. "You always make this good a reputation for yourself?"

"You should've heard the reputation I had a few years ago."

Seraiah laughed.

"Well," Meph turned to face Seraiah, standing up straight. "Thrace stormed out of here wanting us to apologise, so; sorry."

Seraiah thought for a moment. "Yeah, sorry. For cursing at you and all."

"You're still a foulmouthed brat, though."

"And you're a stuck up murglak."

They both laughed. And then laughed some more.

"Okay, we're even then?"

"Yeah. Sure." Seraiah looked to the entrance to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. "Should we go get Thrace? Tell him were fine?"

"Just shout it, he'll hear."

"Huh?" Seraiah looked back at Meph.

"He's just around the corner."

Seraiah looked at the entrance again, this time reaching out with the force a little. He sensed someone quickly run off for somewhere else.

"Son of a..."

"Yeah, he's always doing that. Freaking sticky beak..."

Seraiah laughed again and flicked the last few drops of water off his hands. He thought maybe getting a towel and a change of clothes might be a good idea.

"We better get dry. What time is it?"

Meph look at his chronometer, a necklace with a timepiece on it. "Time to get going."

They both walked out of the room, catching the eye of the other Jedi they passed in the halls. Normally, Seraiah would've folded in on himself under all the eyes on him due to his drenched appearance, but not so much this time.

"Where did you get that chronometer, anyway?" Seraiah asked out of curiosity for the Jedi claim to nonattachment.

Meph looked down at him. "I'll tell you tomorrow. I'm this way." He gestured down a hall that lead to the library.

Seraiah pointed in the direction they were walking before. "But the dorms are..."

"Thrace is down there. I'll give him the good news."

Seraiah nodded. He returned a wave from Meph and went onward to the males dormitories, where a dry change of clothes were available.

Halfway there, he noticed he hadn't stopped smiling since parting with Meph.

So he smiled some more.

* * *

><p><strong>Author notes.<strong>

**Took me a while to get this one done, but then it might just be because it is a longer chapter.**

**I hope that Meph and Serai aren't coming across as too bitchy or petty, and that the dialogue between them is believable. There will be another character in the next chapter, who is also in the story that this short story is being written for (it is a cannon Star Wars character, though she's only been in two books to my recollection).**


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